


The Witching Hour

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Demons, Ghosts, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a paranormal presence, and ends with drunkenly agreeing to help a demon stop the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witching Hour

The feeling of being watched, the cold spots, he could explain, and when he started smelling burning, Castiel’s first thought was the electrician, not the paranormal. Then all his food expiring, and the television cycling channels in the middle of the night, and the figure standing behind him in the mirror, dark, and only appearing for a blink... He saw a psychiatrist, like a rational person. Months passed, Dr. Hael had tried every antipsychotic in the book, and the night he slept on a recommendation of institutionalization, all of his records went up in flames. 

He threw out every match in the house when he went on the first round of medication. There was no way he lit that fire.

Castiel, being a devoutly religious man, resorted to prayer. A coffee mug struck him in the back of the head while he recited Psalm 28, and the lump his coworker questioned him about convinced him he wasn’t imagining.

Still, Castiel’s name was on the deed (which he had paid considerably into) and that gave him current authority of the property. He wasn’t going to leave his dream home that easy. He’d scoured every drawer in the kitchen before he recalled that he’d disposed of all the matches, and the sage bundle in his hand was useless for cleansing the space. Before his eyes, it burst into flame so virulent, he dropped it in shock. By sheer dumb luck it didn’t catch the whole place on fire.

It was that point he called the Ghost Facers. In hindsight, the fact that particular page of the newspaper ads flew against his window should have told him exactly how intimidated by them the spirit was, but Castiel was desperate.

Their visit could be summarized in old proverb: they came, they saw, he had to help one vault out a window. Castiel nearly lost fingers as the window slammed shut, but in that same moment, the howling that seemed to reverberate from within the shaking walls ceased. A lamp that had ripped from its socket and now lay on the other side of the room in a field of broken glass sparked to a gentle glow.

He swallowed, and choked out an irate, “What, no brimstone for me?”

A grandfather clock that hadn’t ticked since it belonged to his grandfather chimed the end of the Witching Hour.

The next morning, he went to work, picked up another quarter gallon of milk since the one from two days ago had curdled, and stopped by his church for some good old fashioned repentance. His pastor attempted to console him, but the man was a Christian; he wasn’t ordained to perform an exorcism like a Catholic church leader. But, again, Castiel was desperate. With a print-out of the verse they needed in a language neither of them spoke, a Windex bottle filled with tap water the pastor said some words over, and inhuman amounts of salt, they made it work.

It started easily enough: the windows rattling, doors slamming on their own, but when the Windex (pardon, holy water) came out, the spirit knew they meant business. All glass- from his drinking cups to the bathroom mirror- shattered, and the noon sun grew ominously overcast in moments. One of his crucifixes fell off the wall, and landed upside down. The poor pastor started sobbing midway through the exorcism, so Castiel, a foreign language major (Greek, but close enough, right?) took the paper and read on. The moment his hand touched it, the disturbances quieted. At first he thought the spirit had accepted its fate, or perhaps those many words had banished it, but then Pastor Uriel had breathed, “ _ Don’t move. _ ”

He didn’t. Shivering in the cold and fear, he felt something touch his shoulder. The hand wasn’t bony or decrepit; it didn’t even feel particularly ethereal. He might have thought it the pastor, if he weren’t currently looking at the man. Hell, it was warm. Then it was gone.

They finished the exorcism without incident. Pastor Uriel left quietly, and Castiel went to bed. It was the worst sleep of his life.

That should have been the end of it- and for any reasonable person, it would have been- but Castiel had never claimed to be a reasonable man. He dug up his old copy of the Key of Solomon, and gave himself a refresher course on demonology. 

He didn’t know if there was any truth to spirits’ power in correlation to the time of day, so he chose the Witching Hour to make contact easier for a recently-exorcised demon, and because he really didn’t want to be interrupted.

He cast his salt circle (which was a pagan thing, but he’d take all the protections he could get), got out the amethyst necklace he’d had in a memory box since his sister gave it to him before their father disappeared, and unboxed the Ouija board. Really, these things should be operated by more than one person, but hell if the pastor was coming back, and he didn’t want anyone else involved if he could help it. He released his clutch on the cross about his neck, and laid his hands lightly on the planchette.

“I call forth the entity recently exorcised from this place.”

Not a twitch. A few more calls into the void, a gentle question as to whether anyone was listening, and a final “do nothing if this is a load of bull,” and he got his answer. Sighing, Castiel closed the board, and leaned down to blow out the pillar candle (he’d actually remembered the matches this time).

There’s a practice called scrying, wherein one sees images for divination; it can be done with anything: coffee creamer, the age-old crystal ball, even smoke. Castiel didn’t see anything in the candle smoke, but he saw something through it. Like the next victim in a horror movie, he mumbled, “...Hello?”

“Good to be back.” it replied, surprisingly... normal, in every sense. Sounded human, looked human- he seemed more like someone to be stuck in traffic next to than hallucinating. The only type of summoning to end with someone like this consisted of a State Farm jingle.

But, the doors were locked, blocked, and salted; anything in here came through the aether. “You... can speak.” He looked down embarrassedly at the Hasbro Ouija board.

“Yeah, bit old for the kiddie toys, myself.” He stepped forward, and Castiel shrunk back. “I know you spiritual types are content with the floor, but I’m wearing Armani.”

Castiel had read the books; like most aspects of religion, few scholars on the subject agreed on anything. Some warned to never offer, or invite a demon to anything, while others explained the astral only treat you with as much respect as you afford them. He thought of a polite way to issue an order. 

“Have a seat.” he settled on, with a motion to his desk chair.

The demon glanced at it, seemed to find it satisfactory, and with a wave of his hand, it skittered across the floor to meet him. He sat down with the grace of an exhausted German shepherd, and the loose wheels of the chair didn’t budge. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Castiel was reminded that he was consorting with a demon- which all seemed very unlikely at the time- and chose his words carefully, in accordance with the Keys and Google’s general consensus. “Tell me your name.”

“Crowley,” he stuck out his hand civilly, “nice to officially meet you, after cohabitating.”

He didn’t want to be rude, but if Castiel got one thing from the pagans, it was to keep his arms and legs inside the circle at all times. Crowley smiled in a friendly way, retracted his hand, then leaned forward. “There’s more red tape involved in signing your soul away than you can shake a pitchfork at. You’ll know.”

Very carefully, he responded, “I do not wish to enter into any sort of contract.”

“Good, it’s my off day. What’s this chat about, then?”

“I seek... clarification, on the subject of... thine... presence, in my dwelling.”

The demon, for his part, looked absolutely tickled. “It’s 2016, love”

He took a moment to make sure that wasn’t some beginning attempt at gaslighting- yet, it was 2016, last he checked. “Correct.”

“Then talk like it.”

Did awkwardness count as disrespect? If so, Castiel was screwed. “I want to know why you were here. Before.”

“Oh,  _ that _ .” he mocked memory loss. “Well, I was in the neighbourhood...”

He’d heard Lucifer called the Great Deceiver, while demonolatrists claiming to have met the deity swear he’s honest, but for lower demons, consorts agree: they lie. “Really.”

Crowley smirked, and conspiratorially conveyed, “Do you have any idea the spiritual value of this little plot of land?”

This isn’t a fucking horror movie; Castiel is nervous, but still falling asleep because it’s past his bedtime. “Don’t tell me I live on a hellmouth or Indian burial ground.”

“What, did you watch too much Buffy as a child?” He did. “It’s called a gate, not mouth. Also, don’t you call them Native Americans by this century?”

Christ. He had to get the politically progressive demon. “What  _ am _ I living on?”

More put-out than offended, he rolled his eyes. “A minor magnetic field.”

This he considered while he yawned. He could believe it; cell reception here was the worst. Though... “Why does that interest you?”

Crowley leaned in, and the way his eyes caught Castiel’s starry nightlight was the first time he thought he looked demonic. “Do you astral project?”

Nope.

He smiled, diplomatically, incredibly untrustworthy, but from a position you have no choice. “Then you’ll barely know I’m here.”

And, just like that, you couldn’t tell he was there at all.

Castiel shouted, “Rude!” He set his alarm a couple minutes late to make up for the lost time, and went to bed. He dreamt of tending a graveyard.

He decided to leave well enough alone, and Castiel’s life from that point on became a sitcom.

He knows Crowley’s around because he can’t keep dairy in the house, but otherwise, nothing. Well, that he couldn’t be hard-pressed to logically explain. Sure, his things are showing up in place he absolutely didn’t leave them, but that’s where he needs them, so he’s not gonna question it. Sure, his analog clocks keep getting stuck at twelve. It’s 2016; he’s got digital. And yeah, his TV’s always on the History Channel nowadays. He doesn’t hate the History Channel- well, except the shows about aliens. Crowley doesn’t seem to like those either, though, because one came on while Castiel was doing his taxes and the television shocked off.

He glanced up, but found nothing. “Could you put something else on, please?” he asked, because the only people who do taxes in silence hate themselves.

The radio crackled alive, and found an oldies station. He picked out the chorus of  _ Brown Eyed Girl _ , and shrugged. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

He’s writing out his annual income when his hand is drawn to a six further up the papers, forms it into an eight. Checking his math, the eight’s right. He leaves a bit of cooking sherry in a glass, next to a tea light. He read demons like that.

The milk’s still going bad, but it’s on the shopping list before it does- and not in Castiel’s handwriting. The house is inexplicably warm all through the winter (he’s saving a fortune in central heating), and he’s getting event reminders in the fog on the bathroom mirror, and Castiel is cohabitating with a demon, and it’s better than his last roommate.

He was tossing stir fry when the stepdad-looking entity appeared perched on his countertop. “You haven’t heard anything about the antichrist, have you?”

Turning off the element, he replied, “I don’t believe so.”

“Dammit.” he muttered, and was gone again. He left a serving out overnight, and the dish was clean on the drying rack the next morning.

Castiel combed his hair, and convinced himself he wasn’t going grey.

“Really, darling, no idea?”

He dropped the comb in the toilet, and stubbed his toe on the sink; getting tickle-attacked by your brother is nothing compared to the surprise of a demon literally apparating behind you in the bathroom mirror. He groaned as he rolled up his sleeve. “ _ What? _ ”

“The antichrist. No crime rates spiking in nearby townships, unexpected plagues? Particularly odd weather?”

He shook his head, held his sleeve above the elbow, and winced in anticipation. Crowley snatched the comb from the bowl, and shook it off disinterestedly (much to Castiel’s disgust) before handing it over. Both the comb and the cuff of his suit were totally dry. He still scrubbed it with the antibacterial soap. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, coyly, and took a long breath. “I may have misplaced him.”

“Misplaced?”

“Yeah.”

“A human being?”

“Yep.”

“You  _ lost _ the  _ antichrist? _ ”

“It’s easier than you’d think. Infants, they all look the same, am I right?”

Confronted with his mortality, “Who put  _ you _ in charge of the antichrist!?”

“I ask myself that every day...”

He smacked the dripping comb on the rim of the sink, splattering water on the wallpaper. “Crowley, am I living in the end times?”

Of course, he was gone.

He didn’t hear from him for a few days. There was a record-breaking earthquake in Taiwan, and flooding in Mississippi.

Castiel was eating the cereal that turns your milk chocolate (because he’d actually been managing to keep milk in the house) when  _ Gilmore Girls _ became a weather report. Tornado watch. 

Well, there went his day plans. He took his breakfast down to the basement. The milk tasted like olive oil.

It was a Wednesday morning- or Tuesday night, depending on when you go to sleep. Wednesday, for Castiel.

He woke up freezing. A cold snap in the spring wasn’t unheard of, but not this sudden. He found bot his bedroom windows open, and after securing them shut, the television blasted from the living room.

Forest fire in California.

_ Static. _

Town in Tennessee levelled by tornado.

_ Static. _

Hurricane upgraded to category five.

_ Static. _

History Channel.

With the TV glowing and his eyes sleep-bleary, all Castiel could make out was the top of his head and the glint off a stout glass he’d forgotten was called a whiskey tumbler, he’d been using them for fruit juice so long. It probably wasn’t apple juice Crowley was drinking.

He joined him on the couch.

There was another glass on his coffee table, next to the bottle. He had the strangest suspicion his hand would pass right through. Crowley set his own down, no coaster. He poured a finger, handed it off, and Castiel downed it in one shot. With a quirked brow, he was more generous the second time.

“Did you find him?”

“Oh yeah.”

History Channel was, in fact, still airing documentaries somewhere between  _ Pawn Stars _ and treasure hunting reality shows. It was at three am, right before the infomercials.

Sleepy, tipsy, and very gay, Castiel had the liquid courage to ask, “How long until the world ends.”

Crowley glanced to the clock on the cable box. “Five, six hours.”

He tried to nod, but was too tired to move his head from where it had mysteriously landed on Crowley’s shoulder at some point. Ended up just kind of nuzzling.

“So, love,” Crowley said, shrugging him off- which Castiel found exceedingly harsh, “how do you want to spend your final hours?”

“Uhhhhhh...” he drawled, trying to translate the question. “You first.”

The demon cocked his head as he considered. “Craig scotch in one hand, my prick in the other.”

“That sounds nice.”

He sipped as the commercial break concluded. “Bet it does.”

Feeling uninhibited, the homeowner sprawled out on the couch, ignoring Crowley’s foot jutted into his back. He watched a 90-year-old Holocaust survivor talk about her escape. “...If it’s really the end of the world, I want to do something crazy.”

He tore his eyes from the documentary, arm draping over the space at his left Castiel had recently vacated. “Like what, cow tipping?”

“Like, I don’t know...” Crowley filled the conversational void with drink. “Punch Donald Trump in the face.”

Scotch nearly came out his nose, and he  _ did _ launch Castiel off the couch. Crowley managed to save his legs (soaked them in whiskey, too) while Castiel casually sniffed his area rug, since he was down there. It smelled like alcohol. Everything probably would have smelled like alcohol. The demon offered a hand to hoist him up, but Castiel yanked him down. No reason to get up, so they sprawled out down there.

“Oh, think bigger. Deck the devil himself.”

Castiel laughed. “Let’s do it.”

Crowley, whose arm had become trapped under the other man at some point, paused. “...Do you want to?”

He twisted to his side, freeing Crowley’s arm in the process. “Isn’t he your god?”

A half roll of his eyes in the grey television light. “More of a taskmaster. I’m here half the time just to get away.”

Magnetic fields, biorhythms, heartbeats. It made perfect sense drunk. “Is there anything after the end?”

“For you, maybe. Probably end up on Cloud Nine. My side of the afterlife, it’ll be smitings for everyone.”

Nothing good ever happens after five am: except this.

Castiel sat up, determined to do something meaningful with the hours of life he had left. “Let’s punch Satan.”

Crowley, well of ancient wisdom and bad advice suggested, “No, think bigger...

Let’s stop the apocalypse.”


End file.
